


1000 Forms of Fear

by serein



Category: Football RPF, Sports RPF
Genre: 1000 Forms of Fear, AU, Alcoholism, Angst, Bayern München, Chandelier, F/M, German Football, German National Team, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Other tags to be added, sia
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-09
Updated: 2015-07-13
Packaged: 2018-03-15 23:09:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,622
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3465479
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/serein/pseuds/serein
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Love and darkness and fear and light and hope and desperation and silence and sound and tears and confidence and doubt and shame and jealousy and imbalance and stability and illusion and reality and love and love and love.<br/>-<br/>In which Manuel deals with the devil and Thomas tries to stop him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chandelier

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Miasanmuller](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Miasanmuller/gifts).



> Dedicated to the wonderful [Ander](http://archiveofourown.org/users/miasanmuller) who's been terribly patient and kind with me. He's requested this quite a while ago. I hope it doesn't disappoint, love.
> 
> The story's inspired by Sia's 1000 Forms of Fear, which you can purchase on [iTunes](https://itunes.apple.com/us/album/1000-forms-of-fear/id882945378) or listen to on [Youtube](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4vH_zROJ35U&list=PLe30UiAEzig4-m874ZzOf21IJbIhEp91k&index=1). 
> 
> I hope you enjoy.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> i. an introduction to swinging upon archaic metal objects.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This first chapter is based upon the first song and most popular track - [Chandelier.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4vH_zROJ35U) An acoustic version can be found [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4naMuYoSOHg).
> 
> Hope you enjoy.

* * *

_I'm gonna swing from the chandelier, from the chandelier_  
_I'm gonna live like tomorrow doesn't exist, like it doesn't exist_  
_I'm gonna fly like a bird through the night, feel my tears as they dry, I -_  
_I'm gonna swing from the chandelier, from the chandelier_  
_But I'm holding on for dear life_  
_Won't look down, won't open my eyes_  
_Keep my glass full until morning light_  
_Cause I'm just holding on for tonight_  
-Sia, Chandelier

  


Red and neon lights ravish upon skin and wig alike; aching feet and unshaped legs bounce messily upon grimy, worn floors that still hope to gleam like their former selves - but it's apparent no one has cleaned these floors since last weekend. Infectious beats curl like nefarious snakes into people's ears, which have, upon entering the room, slowly gone deaf. The walls are covered by carefully placed yet aesthetically casual décor, which fights violently with the shimmering cascade of beams of light from the looming disco ball above, old to the point that nobody in this place was alive during the era that it was conceived.

The club is veiled in a thick sense of wild libido, drunkenness, and lost youth all intermingled in a futile attempt to reclaim what had happened in the past. It didn't help that everything here existed in the haze of sex and generally things considered the exact opposite of pure. Anything untouched by the disco ball's scintillating brightness or by the muted red ones faded gently into pitch darkness, and naturally, through it all, Manuel can't even see the color of the shirt that the girl that sat three seats away from him at the bar, let alone the name of the place that hung overhead towards the doorway.

Not that he would be looking at her shirt, in the first place - he was a - how do you say it? - a flaming gay without the flaming part, because he was by no means flamboyant or interested in fashion or a fabulous man in his own personality. He was a guy who would re-wear the same shirt four days in a row without noticing anything wrong, which often led to a conflict of interests between him and his most trusted confident of secrets and unspeakable truths - Bastian Schweinsteiger. Bastian happened to be gay as well, except the blond was one _with_ the flaming part, because he - and Manuel admits it himself - was, or rather is, a terribly fabulous gay man with his dear and respectable partner, Lukas Podolski. (There were, however, no limited supply of nights where Bastian liked to cry on the phone for three hours about Lukas _maybe_ seeing an older, well-dressed, _Polish_ guy; during these times, he made no moves on Manuel's fashion sense, which Manuel enjoyed.)

Three seats to his right, two men argued, words being shot like bullets. Unmitigated betrayal and viscous tension cut through by raw profanity taint the air, and Manuel is sure that they would either end up with two dead men on the floor or two live men on the floor - but on that of the jail cell. The bartender paid them no heed - he's performing a table magic kind of trick for a four-strong group of raucous girls, two of whom had already tried for flirt with Manuel, if adjusting your stupid lacy push-up bra in front of a gay man meant flirting with him. The dance floor beats as one - some obscure, amateur EDM DJ is cranking out loop after loop, fractured harp chords and suave metallic effects all in one, behemoth track. Some of the women grind obscenely on men, and some of the men grind back, to Manuel's pure and utter disgust. _Why would they make themselves a sex object to be used?_

But it didn't matter. What they chose was what they chose. It was none of his business, really. But what if-

 _No. Tonight is not the night for playing the_ what-if _game_ , his mind scolds. The drink comes to his mouth fluidly - and naturally, it would. He's done this hundreds upon thousands of times, and tonight is no different. The alcohol is soothing, calming - it brings him to a state of predetermined nirvana within all of the reckless chaos and bad decisions that would be made tonight. He's never once let go of the sensation of alcohol - liquid gold running through your veins, elegance and poise becoming one with you in a rush of mad adrenalin and slight anxiety-

It was perfect, really, the discombobulated feeling of drunkenness. It made him think, but not remember - which was perfect. Amnesia is his virtue, his goal. The number of things to forget soars high above the number of things to remember, and if pouring _liquid gold_ down your throat is the way to do it, he'd take it any day.

One of the girls from the raucous watches Manuel down a shot, and even in the darkness, he can see her eyes shining. She's a little drunk, but manageable. As Manuel puts the drink down his gutter, she does the same. Smiling bashfully, she sets her glass down. The other three girls, so captivated with the bartender (be it his buff half-nakedness or the magic or both, Manuel didn't care), don't notice their friend getting up. Looking away immediately, Manuel tries to focus his eyes on a red-sealed bottle four feet away from him, turning his stool in the other direction. The girl doesn't seem to mind, and still approaches Manuel with the same sense of zeal. She pushes through a group of cat-calling men and positions herself right next to Manuel - she's so close that it's almost - _almost_ \- making Manuel uncomfortable. Crossing her arms over her chest, she raises an eyebrow at him and speaks.

"Hey, blondie?"

_Blondie?_

"Name's Manuel. You?"

She giggles - her laugh is silvery.

"Lena. Nice to meet you, Manuel."

"Hi."

Manuel's curt, abrupt. This is why Bastian says he can't ever get himself a stable romantic relationship. (Well, at least he says that to Manuel's face - behind his back, Manuel's sure Bastian says it's the alcohol. Yet another thing to forget - his best friend's behind-the-back gossiping escapades.)

"Hi. So I was wondering-"

"I'm gay."

Her laugh comes again. It's more bronze than silver, Manuel decides.

"Right, well-"

"I'm gay. Like, I have a boyfriend..."

"Great. Well, I-"

"You're going to walk away now, aren't you?"

"No, I-"

"I get it, I'm terribly antisocial and fucking impossible to talk to. Sorry."

"No, I actually quite like your straightforwardness. So I once had this boyfriend-"

"Is he gay?"

"Well, no, but I guess I can't be for sure-"

"How's it have to deal with me?"

"It doesn't. I'm just talking to you. You seem kinda nice."

"Well, as shown by the last minute or so, I'm not."

"Suits me. My friends over there," the girl says, pointing to the other three girls, one of which has dared to touch the bartender's incredibly well-sculpted chest, "yeah. I'm apparently the bitchy one. And they only brought me to this place," she says, gesturing to the club, "because they said I needed to 'loosen up.' I mean, what the actual _fuck_ does that mean?"

"Holy shit! That's kinda like my friends. You see, gay guys...well, a lot of gay guys...are fucking obsessed with working out. It's like, every day. And one day, I tell this guy who goes to my gym that he needs to spend less time on those dumbbells at that amount of weight because it's making his biceps strain and eventually make him pull one. He fucking punches me in the face because some guys are actually feral animals. And guess what he said to me?"

"'Loosen the fuck up.'"

"True as fuck. Yep. 'Loosen the fuck up.' He stepped on me, and then left the gym."

"But did he ever touch those dumbbells again?"

"Well, yeah. But the funniest part?"

"I don't know. Are you really the type of guy that makes girls guess? Don't fucking play that with me. Thanks."

"Yeah, I normally don't like that either. Well, this guy - he pulls a muscle the next week, and in that process, he fractures his elbow. No more dumbbell shit for that guy. And the muscle?"

"The bicep."

"Nailed it."

"Karma, bitch."

"There you go, Lena."

"You remembered my name?"

"You literally told me like 45 seconds ago. Unlike some fucktards, I don't forget people's names in less than a single fucking minute."

"Well, that's good..." Her voice trails spectacularly, a guttural sort of sound emanating from her mouth. Blinking twice, Manuel stares at the girl in the darkness, absorbing her beauty in one long, stretched look.

"Are you checking me out, Manuel?"

"Yep."

"But you're gay."

"Yes."

"So why would you check a girl out?"

"Because for some obscure reason, I want to dance with you, and I have expectations. First of all, you have to be wearing something relatively classy - not too slutty but also with just enough sex appeal to keep the guy on the edge. You have to be like Audrey Hepburn. You need to have heels that are at a minimum of 3 inches off of the ground. Your dress shouldn't be super tight, but also not loose. Your hair cannot be platinum blonde, because that was my best friend for a while, and now I'm forever terrified of that color. It can't be purple, either, because purple's a little too wild for the club, unless you're Beyoncé. Furthermore, you should be a little drunk, but not drunk enough that you're rambling like I am-"

"Manuel. Stop talking. Let's go dance. There's a new artist coming on at ten-thirty. It's...hold on." Pulling her phone, she checks the time. The sudden light of the mobile smartphone shocks Manuel's mild, adjusted eyes, and he blinks rapidly from the sudden flash of light. "It's nine fifty-eight right now, love."

"Love? Really?" Manuel scoffs.

"Yep. You're going to dance with me for the next three hours because I'm not going for the booty call tonight and to be fucking honest with you, I really, really need a guy to just talk to. That okay?"

"Yeah, that's okay. My boyfriend..."

"Will talk to you the rest of your life. I'm just going to see you tonight, and never again. Because that's going to be our fate. You're going to forget your life out on the dance floor, and we will share secrets and confessions and swing unabashed from metaphorical chandeliers. At the end of it all, you will-

"-I will kiss you, and you will forget everything and none of this would have ever happened."

"Yeah. And-"

But before she can finish, Manuel listens as the first chords of an electropop ballad weave themselves through the thick air of the club, a simple piano melody rising above the set of synthetic sounds. A dim, pale purple glow basks upon the singer, who Manuel deduces is female. Faintly, he can see the girl in front of him smile with all of her white, white teeth, and she grabs his hand clumsily.

Her fingers are cold. Like his boyfriend-

"Let's go, Manuel. She's starting to sing."

"She?"

"I don't know her name. She's really good, though."

The two bump through throngs of inebriated men and judging women; through groups that personify athleticism or academics or everything that in-between. She pulls him through the crowd blindly, unseeingly - through all the people, Manuel can see nothing but her forearm and her little, pale hand grasping his big one. They make their way to the front of the dance floor - closest to the singer. It is not until now that Manuel realizes that the singer's back is turned. All he sees of this woman - whose vocals have begin soar above the melody - is her platinum blond wig. Not Bastian's kind of platinum blond, but a dirtier, darker platinum blond. It's synthetic yet wholesome, and Manuel almost feels captivated by its surreal beauty.

Almost.

"Dance with me, Manuel."

The girl smiles again, and unceremoniously, she drapes her arms of Manuel's shoulders. Hesitating, he dubiously puts his arms on her slight waist, just faintly touching her. After a minute or so, she breaks the dead horse hanging over the two of them.

"Do you not know how to slow dance, Manuel?"

"No, because this isn't a slow dance song."

"That's actually true. You know what? Take my hand."

"What?"

"Take my hand."

"Okay, and...?"

"Now sway, Manuel. Sway with me."

She sways gracefully, gently, elegantly. She is radiant; beautiful in all this foul darkness. He notices how her simple red dress hugs her figure; how her hair falls in gentle fringes. He has not looked at a woman like this for many, many years. Perhaps it's the alcohol - Manuel's unsure.

He closes his eyes, and prays that the moment won't end. He feels the girl's small hand squeeze his gently after a couple of minutes. Opening his eyes, he looks around - three other people have joined the two of them in the little swaying escapade, and he smiles lightly. The alcohol in his veins is kicking in. Drowsiness and irrationality creep slowly into his brain - patient, waiting for the right moment to seize him. The song ends, and the singer takes a single deep breath into the mic - one - before launching into the next.

Manuel himself takes a deep breath, and as the alcohol starts to take control of his senses, he clenches the girl's hand a little tighter. A sense of bittersweet remorse fills his lungs. He's here instead of at home with his boyfriend.

His boyfriend.

What was his name again?

Thomas.

Thomas?

Tomas?

Thomas. His name was Thomas. 

Last name?

Neuer.

No, that was his last name.

Schweinstei - that was Basti's, never mind.

Müller.

Now that was it.

 _Thomas Müller_ , his conscience whispers slowly as the singer fluctuates in her pitches and the girl moves from their hand-in-hand swaying position to an arm-around-shoulder swaying position. _Thomas Müller_.

The night and the music and the pretty girl and the crowd swallows his regret quickly. His mind blurs, and blurs, and blurs - his memory fogs. Somewhere in the haze, he leaves the girl for a minute to drink a little - a little - a lot. The girl whispers secrets into his ear as if they were only pennies; he refunds hers with his own raunchy, dirty, dark secrets, his closed anecdotes that he had once sworn to never tell another soul. Tomorrow seems so close yet so far away - morning light is sure, and steady, but the club is still dark; the music is still playing; the people are still drinking. Why the police haven't come to shut it all down exhilarates Manuel - they are doing something that seems so readily tipping into disapproval from authority.

To him, it is the only sense of adventure and daringness and living-on-the-fringe-attitude he can get. The forbidden spirit of it all, the clouded logic and the nebulous perspective - it thrills him, electrifies him.

So he dances and sways and hopes and hates and loves and forgets and drinks and drinks and drinks the night away, swinging on metaphorical chandeliers and holding on for dear life just like the girl said would happen.

The pretty girl disappears eventually, kissing him lightly on the cheek, and it is just him in this Broadway show. He will never see her again, and he doesn't care.

The singer's vocals have long since stopped.

The club empties slowly. Within an hour, only about a hundred weary, drunken, or high people are left.

On the dance floor, there is only one.

There is only Manuel, his guilt, and a bottle swinging nervously with him in his right hand.

And the night. There is the night.

The night, and the silence.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope that you enjoyed this, reader, and are looking forward to the next installment: Big Girls Cry.
> 
> Ander: I hope this satisfied you to some degree. If it didn't, I guess I have 11 chapters to redeem myself.
> 
> Thank you,  
> -Leon (and Max, of course)


	2. Big Girls Cry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A divorce from the tears.
> 
> Based upon the second track of 1000 Forms of Fear by Sia: [Big Girls Cry](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HaONHdLF55o).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoy, and I don't disappoint by much. Apologies for the huge gap in time between the updates - I'm terribly busy and Max is as well. I hope we do eventually finish this work - we'll do our best :)

* * *

_I may cry ruining my make up_  
_Wash away all the things you've taken_  
_And I don't care if I don't look pretty_  
_Big girls cry when their hearts are breaking_  
_Big girls cry when their hearts are breaking_  
_Big girls cry when their heart is breaking_  
-Sia, Big Girls Cry  


The meeting room is stuffy, worn, which juxtaposes with the new, slick 50'' flat-screen TV installed above the podium at the other end of the table. The tables have been wiped to gleaming perfection, and the ganache-laced coffee cakes sit inconspicuously along the middle of the long, long table. Untouched wine-glasses filled with sparkling water rest next to them, docile, quickly losing carbonation. Yet amidst all the food and the luxury, Thomas is incredibly uncomfortable, and not because of the lack of airflow - he is the only man in this room under 30. Heck, under 40 - no, 45. Everyone else here is a corporate manager or a senior-ranking official; elderly, white, and privileged, many of them were occupied with petty grievances committed by obscure employees.

The only oddity in the room besides Thomas for his age is an African-American woman neatly dressed in a purple pantsuit and a garnet-broach. Interestingly enough, this woman is the one he works for. Her hair is diaphanous, aerodynamic, and shot through with gold. She is a woman who has been known her entire life for her practical leadership, steel-gaze, and lack of hesitation in ridding of - shall we call it - 'unsuitable workers.' Her face is unaugmented with makeup of any sort, save for a light layer of lip gloss. Her age - unknown. Thomas has worked for her for eight years and he has never, ever been able to guess her age.  
And it is because of this woman - Viola Thompson - that this company has flourished, whether the old men in this room claim to it or not. (And often, they did not claim to it, which Thomas hated and vocalized quite too often for his own good.)

The man at the podium - probably around the age of...57, Thomas would guess - drones on about the impracticality of having the computer technicians three floors down from the central office "Hub" where most of the staff worked. Thomas himself sat in a little corner office on the floor; it was adjacent to Viola's larger workspace and provided a small, ellipse-shaped window that looked down upon the busy streets below.

"Mr. Müller?"

Viola's whispered words pull Thomas out of his daze, and he blinks at her, startled.

"Your phone's buzzing off the hook. Why do you have that thing with you?"

"I'm sorry, Ms. Thompson, my mistakes. Should I pick it-no, I shouldn't, sorry. I'll pay attention."

Turning his head back towards the man at the podium, he tries to focus his attention upon the man, but his mind ends up diverting back to the vibrating phone.

_Who the hell is calling me?_

_Manuel?_

_No. Don't think about him. That mother-_

"Mr. Müller?"

She had not called him that in quite a long time. "Yes, sorry, what?"

Viola purses her lips at Thomas, and she shakes her head lightly. The man at the podium has stopped talking, and another man - just as old, but with far less hair - prepares to take the stand.  
"I said, what's going on? Why are you so tired?"

"I'm sorry, Ms. Thompson, my boyfriend last night-"

"Don't worry, Mr. Schweinsteiger told me earlier. No need. But why are _you_ so tired? To be frank and honest with you, Mr. Müller, I have been with many men, and when they end up drunk, they also end up single. You are ruining your body with all that insomnia - I can even see the dark bags under your eyes, Mr. Müller - and it's clearly affecting your attention span and ability to perform as well as you normally do."

"Ms. Thompson, I'm sorry, but he - I love him. He's my boyfriend. Of course I have to worry about him. So I have that right."

Her eyes crinkle, and Thomas detects just the trace of a worried frown - which is odd, given Viola's normal iciness, dry humor and professionalism - before the man starts speaking, which pulls her attention away once more. 

_Honestly, who the fuck is texting me?_

_Per?_

_Maybe. But how would he know? He couldn't know. No one knew about Thomas' feelings about his boyfriend being an alcoholic except Bastian, and maybe a nosy Lukas if he had ever glanced just briefly at his boyfriend's text history with Thomas._

_So it had to have been Basti._

_Basti. Why did he even listen to Thomas, a lost boy confused about his relationship with a drunken man, who knew nothing of swallowing his demons in favor of love? Then again, Basti had always -_

"Mr. Müller, I beg that either you get your act together, or you leave this room and we find someone else in the place of your position. Your conduct is atrocious." Viola's tone is sharp, and her voice rises to slightly above normal level. The man across the table shoots them a disapproving glance, and Thomas shrinks in the black leather chair, heart pounding. Grabbing onto the edge of the table, he hoists himself up, stretching his deoxygenated, numb legs. Viola pays him little heed - the rest of the meeting looks at him expectantly. The man at the podium stops in the middle of his speech, slightly slack-jawed at this _young man's interruption of the discussion of a highly important matter_.

His words are quiet, and minimal, considering that he now commands the attention of every member at the board meeting besides his own boss. "I have to go to the bathroom."

Viola doesn't look at him when she replies to his comment, which hanging loosely in the thick, brittle air. "You are excused, Mr. Müller."

Sighing gently, he drags his feet across the ages-old carpet floor. The crystalline door in the corner of the room is tinted an opaque milky-white, and is surprisingly light when Thomas pushes against them. The man's presentation continues, and life inside the board room continues without Thomas. He makes his way down the corridor to the men's bathroom, which is conveniently clean, and also empty. The sound of his worn, black shoes slapping against the pale cream-colored marble seems to be magnified in the room, and he wonders whether anyone ever comes in here besides the custodial staff. Thomas makes his way to one of the grey stalls and locks himself in, quietly. Instead of doing what normal people do - getting rid of their business - he sits down on the edge of the immaculately clean toilet lid and pulls out his phone, curious as to who was texting him earlier.

How appropriate, Thomas thinks to himself as his lock screen rapidly faded into view from black. It was of a careless, just-woken-up Manuel from four summers back, where they were happy and in love and living in a brand new city and a brand new life - New York City. Arm thrown up above his head, hair ruffled and unruly, eyes squinting in the red-tinted sunlight, the look on Manuel's face was a feeling of pure, unadulterated happiness, and for a moment, Thomas feels a little pang of happiness, deep within his blackened and bruised heart. But he brushes it aside, back into the chasm, the abyss of being upset, because being upset was safer. Being upset was something uniform, consistent; there was no fluctuation, no changes, no volatility. Black swallows all other colors, and Thomas liked that.

Entering his password - "invisible" - Thomas' breath hitches to see that it wasn't in fact Basti, or Miroslav, but Manuel. 

It couldn't be, though. When Thomas had left for work at 7, he still hadn't come home. 

But it was.

 **MANUEL NEUER** , the contact reads, plain and heavy and in bold, hearty letters. Besides Viola, he was the only name that Thomas had never attached any kind of emoticon or nickname to, friend or foe.

Finger quivering just in the slightest bit over the glossy phone keyboard, he hesitates to open the text, but decides _to hell with it_ and touches the little rectangle lightly, as if afraid of its contents. It opens quickly, the automated click from the phone echoing through the empty bathroom.

_MANUEL NEUER: thom im sorry_

And that was it.

No explanation of his apology, no elaboration, no realness, no honesty, no nothing. Three words of nothingness, of a meaningless nickname and a grammatically incorrect version of an abbreviated phrase and a word that was used so commonly by Manuel that it meant nothing besides that perhaps the blond had felt a little pang of guilt in his heart, and nothing more. At least that's what Thomas thinks as he closes his eyes, clearing his throat as if doing so would be some kind of physical manifestation of him swallowing his pain. 

Why couldn't Manuel just understand that it was hard for him too?

Why couldn't Manuel just understand the feeling of being alone late at night, waiting for the door to open with a smiling Manuel with pizza and a black-and-white movie but getting nothing?

Why couldn't Manuel just understand that he had done what he had done for so long that Thomas had finally given up on the pizza and the film?

Why couldn't Manuel just understand that - that Thomas was not just a side project to some grand scheme? Why couldn't he just realize that Thomas had feelings too? Real, deep, true feelings that had been battered and bruised and punched repeatedly by loneliness and abandonment and shattered, tattered, ruined hopes?

Why couldn't anything between the two of them nowadays be _normal_? Why did everything have to seem melodramatic and bipolar? Why did life seem like a Woody Allen movie - like _Manhattan_ , but without the slight pedophilic aspect and the New York City aspect and the heavy cheating but with a lot more alcohol?

Frustrated, Thomas gets up from the toilet seat and shoves his phone in his pocket. Unlocking the stall, he walks towards the mirror to check his appearance. Jerkily, he fixes his tie, smoothing at the knot, pulling at the knot, retying the knot, untying the knot, pulling the knot off entirely. He drops the tie in the sink and slouches over the pale, glassy porcelain and immaculately clean metal. His eyelids flutter slightly, and Thomas realizes he's running on ten hours of sleep in the last seventy-two hours. He contemplates for a second whether he should take a nap, but shoots the thought of it down promptly.

The door creaks open, and Thomas straightens instantly. The face of the interloper is familiar, and Thomas is pushed closer to tears, not out of desperation, but a sense of attachment.

It's Miro.

Miroslav Klose, in all his stupid, rugged, aged beauty. Eyes glittering, smile aged, worn, experienced. He was a vision of poise and elegance. A legend at the company. Moving to the big city at sixteen after the divorce of his famous parents; originally taking jobs as vendors, storeclerks, fast-food restaurant workers until he became a barista at a popular urban coffee shop. His success story was cliché, glossy, but real: after catching the eye of the company head, he was recruited to one of the biggest magazines in the world. Armed with prodigious skill, diligence, elegance, and a refined eye for design, he rose in the ranks relatively quickly and perched in the company's highest inner circle by age 30 - a record in the magazine schoolbooks. And here he was - in front of Thomas, who was here, 27, and nowhere close to the company's inner circle besides being the unknown assistant of the most powerful shrew in the building.

"Hello, Mr. Müller."

_So he knows my name._

"Regards, sir."

_Regards? Why did I just say regards, of all things? He doesn't need your stupid regards!_

The older man tips his head slightly, as to show recognition. Thomas turns red.

_Why, on all days, do I have to be talking to Miroslav Klose on one of my messed-up days?_

"How are you, Mr. Muller?"

Miroslav's words seem - for one second - concerned, worried. Did he know, somehow? Why was he here?

"Mr. Müller? I know I can be quite intimidating sometimes, but you and I are - we - we did that cover together. November...? 2010?"

"December, '09, sir. Mr. Klose. Sir."

"So you remember?"

"I would always remember you, Mr. Klose."

"As I would you, Mr. Müller. You've been one of the most interesting and dedicated employees at this company."

 _Why is he here? And is he - is he -_ flirting _?_

"I - thank you, sir. Thank you. I'm going to - going to -"

Thomas gestures awkwardly towards the door, and Miroslav steps aside, lip curling. Uneventfully, Thomas strides out of the bathroom, tie still in the sink, trying his hardest not to look at the company elder.

_Don't look at him. Don't look at him. You can't look at him._

And then - he's out of the bathroom, and back into the whitewashed hallway, the empty, lonely whitewashed hallway. He hates the blankness of it all, the cleanliness of it all. In emptiness, his thoughts echo, his emotions amplify, .

In emptiness, he had space to think whatever he liked, and that kind of power terrified him.

It terrifies him right now.

The freedom of thinking whatever he wanted - feeling whatever he wanted - believing whatever he wanted - is dangerous to him, because it means his mind could return to the blond-haired, blue-eyed man who had picked up a transparent glass cup filled with sin and lies and destruction and never wanted to put it down again.

Thomas shudders inexplicably, a slight chill running up his arm. Biting his lip, he considers whether returning to the conference room is worth the monotony of it all. Yet, he thinks, what else could he do? It wasn't like he could just...leave the office, because that wasn't how things worked around here. Or...no. It wasn't. 

Viola.

She would...never stand for it.

Nestled in his back pocket, his phone starts ringing, the first notes of his ringtone muffled by his pants. Pulling it out, he hopes to God that it's not Manuel.

_Not Manuel. It can't be Manuel._

Viola.

_Why would she be calling? Isn't she in the conference?_

Sliding his finger across the glossy screen, he brings the phone to his ear.

"Hello?"

"Mr. Müller? Is that you?"

"Yes, m'am. What do you need?"

"Where are you?"

"Um, I just left the bathroom. I'm heading back to the conference room now. I will...be there promptly."

He can hear a gentle sigh on the other end, and imagines her exasperation.

"Mr. Müller, the meeting's been adjourned. That's what I was calling to tell you about. It's...11:42 right now. I give you permission to go get lunch early, Mr. Müller. Be back at my office by...let's say...12:30 sharp. We have to talk about a new article on the modern moral obligations of the country versus those of other countries, and their implications upon the general welfare of global society. Mertesacker has been assigned to it, and you know how I feel about Mertesacker. And Shkodran Mustafi is moving to Vogue Italia next month, so I can't assign collaboration duties to her. Is that reasonable?"

_No, because crying takes a lot longer than 45 minutes, Viola, and I definitely don't want to talk to you and fucking _Mertesacker_ about moral oblications._

"Yes, that's sufficient. Thank you, Ms. Thompson."

"It's no problem, Mr. Müller. Have a good lunch break. Did you have breakfast this morning? You came in at five - or so the receptionist tells me."

_A mother through and through. God, why wouldn't she just hang up? And not care? Why couldn't she be like Miranda Priestly and not give a fuck about her employees?_

"I didn't get a chance to today, Ms. Thompson, but that's alright. I'm not particularly hungry. My boyfriend is a bastard, and my life is a mess. Why would I be hungry?"

"Thomas-"

"I will see you later, Ms. Thompson."

And he hangs up.

_Shit._

Turning around, he makes his way back down the hallway to the bathroom, hoping to God that Miro went back to his office and that the bathroom is empty again.

When he opens the door, he bites his tongue to hold back the swear.

No such luck.

There's Miro, standing at the mirror, shirt unbuttoned, massaging his naked chest, which seems to have taken on, in part, a dark purplish color.

The older man turns around quickly, and seeing Thomas, breaks into a gentle smile.

_Fuck, he's hot. And what the hell happened to his chest?_

"Thomas? You're back."

_His lip is curling. Fucking hell, his lip is curling._

"Yeah, I - I - I'm on break. And I -"

_Fuck. What did I want, again?_

"You?"

_Oh, yes. I want you to get out so I can cry._

"Do you want to get a cup of coffee with me, maybe?"

The older man looks surprised, but catches himself.

"I would be delighted, Mr. Müller, to go for coffee with you. But..."

He gestures vaguely to his chest, and hesitates. Thomas tries not to stare.

"Do you...want me to go get some ice for...that?" He points to Miro's left pectoral, which also seems to be swelling.

"No, it's okay, Mr. Müller."

"Are you - okay. Well, um, I'll leave you alone?"

"Let me ask you this, Mr. Müller. If you would just wait a couple of minutes for an old man to compose himself, I will definitely go grab coffee with you, if that is really what you desire. I mean, I'm not a very interesting person-"

"What are you talking about? You're the most interesting people I've ever met! You were made co-editor by thirty! You've written some of the most evocative and challenging articles this damn magazine has ever seen. That article about the social misjudgment of reforming criminals was one of the reasons I joined this magazine. Sir, you're-"

"Miro, please." He pauses, as if about to say something. Instead, he just smiles and washes his hands, lathering his long fingers in the white foamy soap.

_Shit. Did I embarrass him? Well, of fucking course I embarrassed him. I literally fangirled over him. In person. And not like, in a crowd. Just me. Why is he looking at me at that? Why is he smiling? Does he think I'm pathetic? Shit, Miro thinks I'm pathetic._

"Why are you doing that?"

Thomas snaps out of his fervor. "Doing what?"

"Doing _that._ Biting your lip. Whatever that is."

"Oh - I - it's just a nervous thing I like to do when I'm thinking. Sorry if it bothers you, I'll stop."

The older man laughs, and Thomas' mind descends to chaos.

_Fuck, he's hot._

_But is he laughing over me, or about me?_

_Why is he still talking to me?_

_Jesus, god, I'm pathetic._

_I have a boyfriend._

_Manuel!_

_But he's a terrible boyfriend._

_But he's still my boyfriend._

_Does it matter?_

_No, it doesn't matter._

_Is it wrong that I'm attracted to Miro?_

_Yes. You have a boyfriend. Think, Thomas._

_No! He's fucking beautiful..._

_Shit._

"Hmm?" 

"I didn't say anything."

"Oh."

Then, Miro turns to Thomas, and grins his beautiful, beautiful grin, showing his white teeth and reflecting honesty and warmth and even a coy bit. Thomas' heart experiences all of the cliché, glossy feelings - the little quickening of the heart, the little, tiny hope of _maybe_ having a chance even if it would never happen in a million years because he was so beautiful and elegant and wonderful and put-together and Thomas was just a mess, the briefest moment of picturing a future with this man, a future of saying goodbye to a certain tall blonde he had sworn to himself so many years ago to love until the day he died, to love until the end of time...

But he pushes it away, because it's not right to feel like that towards a man a decade older, a man who was his boss, a man who would definitely never love him back...plus he had a boyfriend who loved him, so why should he feel that way with this random guy?

(A random, hot, kind, intelligent guy, a little bit of Thomas' mind argues.)

"So about that coffee?" Miro suggests, raising an eyebrow. He begins to button up his blue button-down shirt, patiently sliding the glistening white buttons through the navy fabric.

Thomas finds himself staring at Miro's long fingers work the buttons through the shirt, the sight seemingly seductive and addicting. Why did he have to look so hot doing it?

"Thomas?"

He manages to squeak out a little reply. "Yes?"

"Are we going to get the coffee?"

The older man finishes buttoning up his shirt as he says this, and pulls up his collar to fasten his blue and black tie as he says this, the gold buttons on this sleeve clinking lightly against each other as he does so. 

"Um. Yes, yes, please. We need - er, should - go grab that coffee. Yeah."

"Alright. Where should we go?"

The rustle of the dark silk echoes in the empty bathroom, threading through the silence of white tiles and an awkward Thomas.

"Ah -" His eyes continue to fixate on Miro's long fingers working the tip of the tie through the knot and adjusting its shaping in a jerky, awkward gesture.

"How about the new shop down the street? _Colour The Small One_ , I think it's called?"

"I've never been there."

Miro smiles gently, almost whispering his words. "There's a time for firsts for everything, isn't there, Thomas?"

Thomas swallows thickly, watching Miro straighten his suit jacket and square up his tie. "Yes, I - I suppose there is, sir. Um - I guess - shall we go, then, right now?"

"That would be a good idea, I think. Given that Ms. Thompson will likely behead you if you return late, it might suit you to leave now."

Thomas is rendered speechless for a couple of seconds, "How - how did you know?"

"That Vio's really strict? Well, I started here working as a paper boy; she and I were mates and we'd drink cheap, weak coffee in the lounge every day after work together. Didn't she tell you?"

Thomas just stares at him, uncomprehending his words. _Ms. Thompson and Miro as paper boys? But everyone had to start somewhere, right? God, fuck, I'm pathetic compared to them._

Miro seems to understand Thomas' look, and smiles. "Let's go for that coffee, Mr. Müller."

"Thomas. Mr. Müller is too...formal."

"Right. Thomas. You must have corrected me thirty something times all those years ago when we did that cover together. My apologies."

"Don't apologize."

"So - coffee?"

"Yeah."

Thomas pulls the door open for Miroslav, and the older man grins at him, hands in his coat pockets. Thomas blushes, his cheeks turning a shade of pink not even roses could match. Together, the confident, aged editor and lanky, young assistant walk to the silver elevators, the latter receiving several odd, sideways glances from female receptionists. He can only offer them an awkward, half-baked smile. Once downstairs, the two move past the security - who nod slightly at Miro - and push the revolving door out to the lukewarm afternoon air, where sunlight is filtering through a set of looming tree branches above them. Pedestrians pay them no heed, pushing past them to get to wherever they're going. Miroslav offers his hand to Thomas, and unthinkingly, Thomas accepts it.

Together, they stream into the reds, whites, blacks, and neons of the pedestrian river of people, hands linked, heading down the weathered, crackled cement towards a chestnut brown little shop, and Thomas loses himself in the moment - together with a man who he admired, away from a man who he thought he loved.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes - Meisels - if you read my work, that lock screen photo was a reference to that scene from Office Romances with Thomas' cover :) Apologies for not asking your permission; I just wanted to surprise you if you do happen to read my stuff.
> 
> I hope you're satisfied, Ander.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading. I hope that you enjoyed. Ander, I hope this met your initial expectations.
> 
> Thank you to Max, as always.
> 
> Feel free to leave me a comment if you have anything (positive, negative, anything!) to say along with kudos if you enjoyed this particular work.
> 
> Thank you once more,  
> -Leon


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